The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

RYAN

The next day I’d been rechristened Ryan Reynolds—Roark’s idea of a cute joke—and was walking up to my room in The Crooked Quill with Edith Whitman, the owner. She looked like she’d been picked out of a casting call of hundreds to play the “sweet old grandma.” Worse, she’d already insisted that I call her Grandma, as if she knew she was twisting the thumbscrews.

My conscience, which had been more or less asleep for most of my life, was prickling…especially since Grandma Edith didn’t seem particularly well-off. The inn was nice enough, and I knew from the packet Roark had prepared for me that the building itself was worth a bundle, but the carpet wasn’t much nicer than the one in my apartment building, which had probably seen its last update half a century ago, and some of the furniture in the lobby looked like it would collapse if a bird perched on it.

I’d only gotten a quick glance at the Christmas tree from the front window when I’d circled the place on foot. I hadn’t gotten eyes on the ornament Roark wanted, but from the picture he’d provided, it didn’t look like much—a smallish glass ball covered in spikes. Kind of like a ball from a sweetgum tree but red and white. The only way I could figure it was worth anything was if it was stuffed with something more valuable and probably illegal, but this little old lady sure didn’t look like a drug peddler, and I’d never known Roark to mess with that stuff.

So maybe it was personal, although what this broad could have done to piss him off was anyone’s guess.

“Grandma” led me up the stairs, stopping every three or four steps for a rest, taking so long I wanted to pick her up and carry her to the top for both of our sakes.

When we reached the landing, she led me to a door with a mini holiday wreath attached to it.

“This is it, dear,” she said, breathing heavily.

I opened the door and saw a room like any other, with two beds—both of them too small—a bureau, a desk, and a small Christmas tree set up in the corner.

She was lingering in the doorway, though, like she wanted something, so I nodded toward it. “Nice tree.”

Clearly, I’d read her right, because she glowed in response. “Oh, thank you. My granddaughter, Anabelle, decorated the inn for the holidays. She has a Christmas store, but online, you know. It’s called It’s Christmas Again. She repurposes old Christmas decorations no one wants anymore and makes them new again.”

“Cool,” I said, entering the room and depositing the duffel bag.

Still, the old lady hadn’t budged, so I turned back to face her, feeling a weird prickle of guilt across my skin. Because she wasn’t just little and old and kind of frail. She seemed lonely. I was liking this job less every minute.

“You know,” she said slowly, as if she was about to deliver a chestnut of wisdom, “you have genitals drawn on your face.”

Surprised laughter spilled from me. “Yeah. Someone drew it on my face when I was…asleep. It was in permanent marker, and I haven’t been able to get it off.”

“I’d wondered if you’d drawn it yourself,” she remarked with a smile. The wrinkles around her mouth were deep and there were plenty of them, like she was a person who’d smiled a lot in her life. It made me like her more, and myself less.

“Nah.” I shifted my weight between my legs. “I’m enough of a dickhead that I don’t think I need to announce it with a picture.” I cringed and tried to backpedal. “Sorry for the language, ma’am. Grandma.”

Her smile grew wider. “I’ve been using adult language since before you could toddle on two feet, young man. And I also know a secret for removing permanent marker.”

“No shit,” I said, then gave her my best oops face.

“Come on down.” She gave a weary sigh and glanced back at the staircase before taking a weak step toward it.

“Uh, is what you need down there?”

“Yes,” she said with another sigh, “and I’ll admit my legs aren’t what they used to be. Anabelle keeps telling me I need to employ a helper, but I’m sorry to say business hasn’t been brisk lately. My dear granddaughter helped me update the website, but it’s not up and running yet. You’re my only guest until after Christmas.”

Dammit. This was further proof that Roark’s story about the ornament was bullshit. He was just doing this to punish me. Want to put Ryan in his place? Make him steal from a little old woman on Christmas. That’ll teach him.

“I’m going to carry you down the stairs,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m going to carry—”

“My eyes may have given out, but there’s nothing wrong with my ears. The last time a man offered to carry me on a staircase was just after I’d gotten married.”

“I’ll marry you if you insist. But I don’t think carrying needs to come with a lifetime commitment.”

She snorted. “I’m sure you’re a lovely young man. But I have a firm rule against marrying men with genitals drawn on their faces.”

“You’re much too young for me,” I tease, “but if you help me fix the problem with my face, I might stand a chance at charming someone else.”

We left the room together, and I closed the door behind us and turned toward her. I didn’t know shit about carrying people, so I picked her up under the armpits and started walking. She couldn’t weigh much more than my duffel bag. It was cold outside, and not much warmer in here, yet I felt sweat beading at my temples. I couldn’t take something from this woman…

“What on earth are you doing?” she asked, affronted, and the dozens of romance movies I’d been made to watch by a long stream of disappointed women came back to me. Feeling like an idiot, I picked her up like a princess and carried her down the stairs.

She seemed amused by the whole thing and chuckled softly as I set her down at the bottom. Reaching up, she patted me on the cheek. “You’re a good boy.”

It was like she knew she was twisting my heartstrings. I trailed after her like a lost little kid latching on to the first friendly face they see as she walked to her desk by the front door. She took out a few alcohol wipes and, giving me a stern look, started rubbing one of them across my cheek with as little self-consciousness as if she were my mother. Not that my mother would have given a shit about a thing like that. After she finished with one wipe, she assessed my face and then started in with another. “You shouldn’t be drinking that much around friends who’d do a thing like that. Friends like that aren’t much good at all.”

“You’ve got that right,” I muttered as I took the wipes from her.

It was probably time to go back upstairs. I could come down later to scope out the tree. But I found myself wondering what this nice old broad was doing alone on Christmas Eve. I didn’t like it.

“Where’s Anabelle tonight?” I asked.

“Why? Would you like to draw a phallus on her face?” she asked, completely straight-faced.

“No,” I said, laughing. “Just wondering why you’re working on Christmas Eve. Especially if you’ve got a granddaughter who has a thing for Christmas.”

Moving slowly, as if her whole body hurt, she edged out from behind the desk and motioned for me to join her. I followed her into the room with the Christmas tree, which she’d probably call the parlor.

It should’ve felt like a windfall—she was going to lead me straight to where I needed to go—but I didn’t feel good about it at all.

There was a credenza just inside the door, with a thermos sitting on a shiny metal plate on top, next to a couple of Frosty the Snowman mugs. She uncapped the thermos and poured something into the mugs—hot chocolate, by the scent—while I scoped out the tree.

It was large enough that two guys must have had to haul it in, and densely decorated from top to bottom with lights, tinsel, and old-fashioned ornaments. Looking for the sweetgum ornament would be like trying to find one specific needle in a needle factory.

You’re just looking for excuses to fail.

No one could call you out quite like the voice in your head.

Edith pressed one of the mugs into my hand, and I reflexively took a sip, lifting my eyebrows when I tasted the Baileys.

Edith shrugged. “We’re both alone on Christmas Eve, son. I suppose we might as well make the most of it.”

I could have pointed out that we weren’t alone because we had each other. But she didn’t seem like a woman who’d stand for bullshit, and truthfully, I would have been disappointed if she had. So instead, I touched my mug to hers and followed her to an old-fashioned, wooden-legged sofa facing the tree.

She lowered herself onto the gold-and-red-striped upholstery first, and I joined her.

For a moment, we sipped in silence, looking at the tree, my eyes moving over it slowly. But I couldn’t focus. The question of why she was here alone kept bothering me. “Why’d you have the hot chocolate out if you weren’t expecting company?”

“One never knows when a Christmas miracle will present itself.” She said it seriously, and I didn’t even feel like cracking a joke in response.

Another few seconds of silence passed, comfortably enough, and then she blurted, “My son is an idiot, and my daughter-in-law is no better. They did invite me to celebrate Christmas with them this evening, but I told them no. I don’t hate myself. Keeping the inn open was a handy excuse.”

Snorting, I raised my mug to hers for another tap.

But she wasn’t smiling. She pointed to a framed photograph hanging on the wall opposite the tree, which I hadn’t noticed because I’d been trying to look for the sweetgum ornament without appearing to look for it.

The photograph was of a woman about my age with long, wavy brown hair and eyes so big they made me think of a baby deer. I instantly wanted to protect her. The thought was ridiculous, because I’d never successfully protected anyone. I’d only accepted this job to protect Jake, and I couldn’t even do that right, because I was getting the feeling I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to steal from Grandma . Especially since she was this fawn-eyed woman’s real grandmother.

I cleared my throat to make sure my voice came out right and said, “I’m guessing that’s your granddaughter Anabelle?” I liked the musical sound of her name. It suited her. There was something elegant and sweet about her face.

She looked like she’d see right through me.

“Yes,” Edith said warmly. “She isn’t stupid at all, thank goodness. I’m grateful some traits skip a generation.”

“Was your husband stupid?” I asked, because Jake wasn’t around to tell me to stop running my mouth.

“Oh, yes. Terribly.”

I laughed in delight, then felt a fresh rumble of guilt move through me like a garbage truck backing up and preparing to dump its load.

She sipped more from her mug, then said, “She’s with a young man who’s all wrong for her. That’s where she is tonight. Nothing would do but to visit his family for the holiday. I’m worried he’ll propose.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a hotelier.”

I was unclear on how that would automatically make him an asshole, but I had a feeling I’d agree with Edith on this one. She was a solid, salt-of-the-earth sort—if she said someone was a prick, he was a prick.

“I never stay at hotels,” I lied, lifting my hot chocolate for a sip. “Bed and breakfasts all the way.”

She gave me a measured look. “You’re a good liar, you know. And what are you doing here, all alone, Ryan Reynolds ?”

She obviously knew the name was bullshit, and I didn’t have it in me to try to convince her otherwise. “The only person I care about wants nothing to do with me, that’s why. I figured why not come here? They say it’s nice during the holidays. I could be anywhere, though, and it would be all the same to me.”

Before checking in, I’d walked around Williamsburg some. Seen the big Christmas tree they’d hoisted up in Market Square and strolled around the college campus and the colonial area. Checked out the jokers walking around in their tri-cornered hats and stockings, pretending it was colonial times. Everything seemed to have a red bow on it, like the place itself thought it was a gift. And you know what? It was kind of nice. It felt like Christmas here in a way it hadn’t at my apartment.

Still hadn’t made me merry.

“Why does this person want nothing to do with you?” Edith asked, studying me with sharp eyes.

The question felt like a punch to the gut, but I was still half-heartedly planning on stealing Edith’s prized possession. The least I could do was answer her truthfully.

“Because I ruined his life.”

That was the conclusion I’d drawn from what little Jake had told me. I was the one who’d pulled him into our arrangement with Roark. If I hadn’t tried to pickpocket the jerk, we never would have met him in the first place. We’d be…well, I wouldn’t have made it as an accountant or a store manager or anything like that, but my brother might have.

“And is your lover the one who drew the genitals on your face?” Edith asked, giving my cheek a glance. Maybe a ghost of the dick was still there, outlined on my skin.

I snorted. “Jake’s not my lover. He’s my brother. I’m straight. But I haven’t found a woman who’s willing to put up with my bullshit either.”

“Huh. You’re a late bloomer, maybe,” Edith said, turning away. I followed her gaze to the tree, and a red-and-white sunburst caught my eye. The damn sweetgum ornament.

Something strange happened in my chest as I watched it refract light from the white bulbs strung on the tree, but Edith didn’t seem to notice anything was up with me.

After a moment’s silence, she released a gust of air and said, “One thing’s for sure. You’ve got time to change things. I envy you that.”

I glanced at her sharply. There was something about the way she’d said it…

She nodded in acknowledgment, her bun grazing the top of the couch. “They gave me two years. Maybe three. I only hope I have time to convince Anabelle not to marry that fool. He’d never accept her for who she really is. I was in a marriage like that for half a century, Ryan, and I wouldn’t wish it for her.”

I felt the news more deeply than I would have thought possible, given that Edith was a complete stranger I’d known for an hour.

“Shit, I’m really sorry,” I said.

She huffed and leaned back. “Try not to do anything you’ll have to feel sorry for later. That’s one thing I’ve learned.”

“Then I’m definitely fucked,” I said, and instantly apologized again, getting an amused look.

“I’m old enough to have heard it all, you know.”

“You’re not so old,” I lied.

“I am, but I’m nothing compared to this house. You know, some of the things in here go back to the very start of this country. You wouldn’t think it to look at them.” She pointed directly at the sweetgum ball. “That ornament has been passed down in my family for years. My son brought it to that Antiques Roadshow thing this past fall. Didn’t even ask me, of course. They told him it was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Surprise kicked me in the balls. Hundreds of thousands for that puny little bit of glass. Some people had too much money to spare, money spilling out of their pockets and bank accounts. Money they didn’t know what to do with. It was the only explanation I could think of for why a person would blow a wad of cash on something that was going to hang, barely noticed, on a Christmas tree.

Maybe this brings us back to my point about being an asshole, but I wouldn’t feel so bad about taking money from a person like that. I would feel like shit on the bottom of Satan’s horse foot if I took something from her .

“Who’d pony up that much for an ornament?” I asked.

“Someone stupid,” she said, hoisting her mug. I tapped it with mine yet again, sensing a deep thrum of understanding between us. It had been a while since I’d gotten along with someone like this. Other than Jake, most of my friendships and relationships were transactional and brief. Getting drinks. Having a laugh. Hooking up. Getting into trouble together.

“Someone stupid,” I agreed after a moment. “You made him give it back?”

“I did. He wanted to sell it and share the profits. I told him I’d turn him in for theft if he didn’t bring it home to the inn, where it belongs.”

“Which is why you’re not spending Christmas with your son and his wife,” I said with a half-smile.

“Oh, there are dozens of reasons. Maybe a hundred. Now, tell me about your brother.”

The last couple of months of being a stranger to my brother—the one person I told everything—must have screwed me up more than I’d realized, because I did exactly as she asked. I told her about growing up in crappy foster homes, where we were treated like we were only worth the extra dollars we brought in each month, only to fall into an adult life that wasn’t much better. I didn’t cop to doing anything illegal, for obvious reasons, but I shared a lot of the truth with her nonetheless.

And she told me more about Anabelle, who was, of course, an absolute angel who was much too good for the hotelier. As I sat there listening, my gaze kept darting back to that photo. To the determined tilt of Anabelle’s chin and those big eyes. I decided that while she looked sweet, for certain, she also looked tough.

It was late afternoon by then, and Edith announced she was making me Christmas dinner. I didn’t say no, because I’d already decided I was going to leave in the night and never come back. Maybe it would get Jake in trouble, maybe not. But I wouldn’t steal from this woman. I couldn’t.

I understood now why he’d struggled so much with being Twin One. Getting to know the people you intended to screw over made it twice as hard. Thrice.

A couple of hours later, Edith and I ate Christmas dinner together—a real dinner, with roasted potatoes and broccoli and an honest-to-God ham. Afterward, at her insistence, we bundled up and went for a walk on Duke of Gloucester Street. It was cold, but not as cold as it would have been in New York, and the whole street was lined with glowing twinkle lights and those big red bows. Other people were milling around, singing Christmas carols and drinking hot chocolate, generally making merry. I have to say it was pleasant. The best Christmas Eve I could remember having.

I’d never had any family other than Jake. None of our blood relations had offered to take us in when we were little. No grandmothers, aunts, or uncles had come forward. Not a single one. We’d only had our various foster parents, who’d seen us as a job, and Roark, who’d seen us as a paycheck.

Edith was like the two grandmas I’d never had.

After we returned from our walk, we said goodnight to each other and she kissed me on the cheek.

“You’ll grow up just fine, Ryan,” she told me, as if I weren’t already fully grown.

I waited until two in the morning to head downstairs with my pack. The Christmas lights were still glowing in the parlor, the soft white light spilling into the hall. I wasn’t going to take the ornament. But I wanted to say goodbye to the little ball of glass that was about to screw up my life.

I entered the room and approached the tree, coming to a stop a few feet away. My gaze narrowed on the red-and-white sweetgum ball. A pretty little thing, to be sure, but I didn’t think much of anyone who’d waste their money on it. I did think a lot of Edith, however.

Satisfied with my decision, I turned to go—and stopped cold, because Edith was standing in the doorway. She was wearing an old-fashioned dressing gown, complete with a satin hair net. Her huge glasses were perched on her nose as she watched me, making me feel like the green grump in that Dr. Seuss story.

My heart lurched, but I hadn’t been caught doing anything wrong.

“You move like a cat,” I commented.

“My bones disagree with you. Are you planning on leaving?”

I adjusted the strap of the duffel bag on my shoulder, needing something to do with my hands. “Yes.”

Her gaze still on me, she said, “You came here for the starburst ornament. I’d wondered if someone would come after that program aired. I told my fool boy he’d set me up for it.”

“You should have an alarm system,” I said.

“Would it matter? Any worthwhile thief would be able to disable it.”

“But it would make it harder.”

I took a step toward her—because the exit was that way, and I was guessing she’d prefer me to leave—and she instantly recoiled.

Something twisted in my chest. She thought I was going to hurt her. This little old woman who’d treated me like family all night thought I was going to hurt her.

It was a low moment, is what I’m saying.

“I’d never hurt you, Edith,” I said, my voice as urgent as my racing pulse. “I don’t hurt people.”

“But you do steal from them.”

I could have lied. I wasn’t Twin One, but I had plenty of experience with lying when the situation called for it. But this day had split me open in ways I didn’t understand. Or maybe it had just deepened the wound from my brother turning his back on me.

“I work for a man who hires me to take things, yeah, and he sent me here. But I’m not going to do it. That’s why I’m leaving. I just…” I scratched my head. “I wanted to take one last look at the damn thing.”

“What will happen to you if you don’t bring it to him?” she said pointedly, her eyes taking my measure from behind her big glasses. Or maybe they weren’t. I remembered what she’d said about being nearly blind.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “He threatened my brother. But my brother wouldn’t want me to do this either. He’s better than me. Always has been.”

She was quiet for a long moment, studying me in the glow of the tree lights. Finally, she said, “You really will grow up to be a fine man someday. I can tell.”

I huffed a bitter laugh. “I wish I shared your confidence.”

“Take the starburst ornament. Take it, but I expect you to come back next Christmas. Come back, and tell me you’ve changed your life and made up with your brother. I’ll be waiting to hear it.”

Disbelief swallowed me like a black hole. This woman had threatened to turn her son in for taking the little ornament onto Antiques Roadshow , and she was just going to give it to me?

It would solve a major problem for me, no doubt, but I couldn’t accept it. I’d already decided I was going to do something decent, dammit.

She stuck her hand out, her wrinkled chin held high, and I felt powerless to do anything but step forward and take the ornament, careful not to hold on too tightly. She squeezed my hand and then released it, nodding to herself as if she’d come to some conclusion she agreed with.

“I’ll wrap it up for you.”

“You’re going to wrap it up for me?” I asked in shock as my whole world ripped open. This wasn’t what experience had taught me to be true. People didn’t just give you valuable things, ever. You had to take them. You had to trick your way to success.

Her sidelong glance held surprising humor. “I said you could take it, not break it.”

“I can’t possibly go along with this.”

“It’s a Christmas gift, Ryan. But there are strings. I meant what I said. You’ll come back here next December and tell me what you did to turn your life around.” She gave me that same creased-cheek smile as earlier. “And I hope to tell you that I succeeded in vanquishing that hotelier.”

Thank you felt too small.

Thank you felt like nothing.

So I nodded, and tried to swallow the blockage in my throat. “I promise you, Edith Whitman, I’ll be back next year.”

“And I’ll hold you to it,” she said. “December 1 st .” She said it so assuredly, even though she didn’t know my real name or where I lived, or have any meaningful way of pulling me back except my word. She was treating my promise like it meant something, which made me want it to mean something.

“Merry Christmas, Ryan,” she added.

Then she wrapped up the ornament and sent me off into the night.

Something inside of me was broken and reborn, and I knew I’d be back. I knew it. Because Edith Whitman had changed my life.